Whispers From The Wasteland
by The Moidart
Summary: Various Short Stories and One-Shots from the Fallout Universe.
1. The Wanderer's Legacy

Ostil watched the burning buildings and resisted the urge to kill Mutt there and then. You never burn the buildings, that was one of the few rules that Ostil had held to in his twenty three years as a slaver. Good shelter was often hard to come by and no matter how many times the previous inhabitants got snatched someone new would invariably move in. It made his job a hell of a lot easier if he knew where to find easy prey and he needed that more and more now. All the villages and towns near The Cattle Market were building bigger walls or buying bigger guns, so a raid was out of the question for a small crew like his which meant he had to travel out to the arse end of nowhere to find some idiots who thought they lived in a safe world.

But he couldn't let himself get too mad, it was a good raid he had to admit. Over thirty taken with no losses on his side, Cid had taken a shallow cut but that was it. They were good quality to boot, a lot of young ones in them, not a single invalid or fighter among them (though a couple were past their prime), hell a few of them might even be educated judging by the book cases in a couple of the houses and the Guild paid a high price for educated slaves. With this one raid he would easily cover his Guild fees and expenses for the season. Another raid even half as good as this one and he'd be in the clear for the foreseeable future. Or if he wanted the risk he could buy into the raid Skinner Sam was planning with a couple other Guild members on those refugees coming out of the west, if it went well he would be rich enough that he wouldn't need to raid for a couple years.

"Tie them up tight now." Ostil ordered Pup. The short, squat slaver grunted and went about tightening the ropes around the necks of the new captures. "And tell your brother I'll be reducing his cut for that." Ostil gestured towards the burning buildings. Pup grunted and shrugged. "Stupid bastard." Ostil muttered as he walked up and down the line of slaves, gazing into their terrified faces. "Now I imagine you'll all be hating me very much right now and I don't really blame you." He stopped and slammed his cane into the ribs into a burly man who dared to meet his eye.

"But you'll come to learn that I am a merciful and generous man, relative to my peers." He said with a chuckle. "You're all just lucky that it was me who got to you and not one of Steelfoot's sons." He paused and watched their faces for any reaction and was left disappointed when confusion was the only thing he saw. He truly was in the arse end of nowhere for them not to live in fear of Steelfoot and his boys. "Regardless, its simple: Do what you're told, no fighting, no fuss and my boys won't touch you, unspoiled goods sell for more but if you force my hand I'll sell you beaten and bruised to the Deadwater Tribals and let me tell you the way they cook their meals will make whatever I do to you seem like a massage."

"We got all we could out of the buildings, boss." Cammick called as he stumbled towards Ostil, coughing violently. "Some couple hundred caps, some medicine and a couple maps that the Guild might want to buy." Ostil nodded and walked towards Cammick.

"Split the caps equally between everyone and put the medicine in..." He stopped as an old man met his eyes defiantly.

"You won't get away with this." The old man said. "The Wanderer will come for you." Ostil slammed his cane across the old man's face, sending him sprawling to the ground. "He'll give you a single chance, turn that down and all your boys will die screaming." The old man said with a grin. Ostil kicked the man in the stomach and spat on him.

"You shut your fucking mouth and get walking. We're leaving boys!" He ordered and walked to the side as Cammick and Cid began to kick the slaves into action. Who was this "Wanderer" the old man was going on about, he wondered. Some local warlord or deity most likely, hopefully the latter Ostil thought. Deities and spirits were far less likely to show up at The Cattle Market demanding compensation for their lost people, be it in caps or blood.

"Ty!" Ostil called his second-in-command over and watched as the tall slaver limped over. "Set a fast pace." He ordered. "I want to be away from here before someone comes to investigate the smoke." Ty nodded and went about helping the others. Something about the old man nagged at Ostil. He was used to defiance, it was common in the new slaves but it usually came from the fighters and the dumb not from old men missing half their teeth and he didn't have the look of a fanatic who believed some vengeful spirit would protect him. Whoever this 'Wanderer' was Ostil would rather not meet him, not with a small crew like his. He wasn't like Skinner Sam or Steelfoot's Boys, looking for a scrap just for the sake of it. He liked his raids to be quick, quiet and if possible devoid of any shootouts with pissed off locals. They set off at a quick pace, Cid and Hunter leading the way, Mutt and Pup bringing up the rear. In short order they were past the last of the small community's farmland (and the body of the only of their sentries to put up a fight) and back onto the pre-war road they had come in on. It had a few holes and piles of debris here and there but it was a far sight easier than clambering over hills and through rivers.

"You wouldn't mind slowing down for a bit, boss?" Ty asked, coming level. "My leg is killing me." He added. Ostil gave his second-in-command a sympathetic glance, the bullet in his leg made every trip longer but Ostil didn't have the heart to fire Ty, the old slaver had been reliable throughout all his years and saved Ostil's ass on more than a couple of occasions.

"Just a bit longer, Ty. We'll stop for a break then." Ostil told him, eager to leave this area behind him. They continued on for a short while until Ostil noticed Ty's increasingly ragged breath. "Short break boys." He called. "Five minutes." Ty nodded his thanks and sat atop the hood of a ruined car, rubbing his leg.

"You could let us go now and the Wanderer might even let you go home." The old man said as he met Ostil's eye once again. The Slaver sighed and put is hands on his hips as the old man's neighbour tried to shush him.

"You simple or something?" Ostil asked the man. "How many times do I need to tell you to keep your mouth sh..."

"He's right you know." Another slave put in, a young woman who would probably fetch a high price. "The Wanderer's killed people that would make you piss your pants like it was nothing." Ostil tightened his grip on his cane, resisting the urge to crack it across the woman's face.

"You see Hunter over there?" He asked, pointing to the lanky youth who was drinking from his canteen. "He used to run with Skinner Sam and I don't doubt he picked up a few tricks that could make your Wanderer beg for death." Ostil decided not to mention the fact that Hunter left Skinner's crew out of disgust at the man's ever growing sadism. "Next time any of you speak up I'll have him start on grandpa over there." He gestured at the old man. The whole group settled for glaring at him, which suited Ostil fine. When the time was up they set off again but went for less than ten minutes before Cid held up a hand and the small column came to a halt.

"What is it?" Ostil asked. Cid pointed down the road.

"Someone in the distance." He shouted back. Ostil frowned and screwed his eyes, barely making out the shape of a human in the middle of the road.

"They moving?" He asked. Cid shrugged.

"Can't tell, don't look much like it though." Ostil considered it for a moment then waved them on, it wasn't like he could have hoped to have to road to himself for the entire journey. They drew closer and Ostil could make out the man in more detail. He stood alone by the looks of things, milling in the middle of the road. He carried no weapons that Ostil could see, though he wore a heavy coat that could easily concealed one. A blanket was spread out beside the road, a backpack, rifle and two canteens placed on it. Ostil let his hand rest on his pistol as they came close to the man and everyone else began to finger their weapons nervously.

"Been waiting for someone to come along." the man called with a smile. It was an easy, warm smile but one that did not reach his eyes.

"You a trader?" Ostil asked, eyeing his surroundings. He could see no-one else but the ground rose up on his left and there was more than enough concealment in the form of bushes and dead trees on it.

"Of sorts." The man held his palms open to show he was hiding nothing. He might have been called handsome once but his face was scarred and weather-beaten now though there was still a certain sharpness to his features. "I offer an exchange." He said as the small convoy came to a halt before him, the slavers fanning out.

"What is it?" Ostil asked him.

"Their lives." The man said gesturing to the row of slaves, all of whom stared at the ground in silence.

"And in exchange?" Cammick said before Ostil had the chance.

"Yours." Silence fell on the group as all the slavers looked at the man as if he was mad. "I'd also be grateful if you would lay all your weapons down on that blanket there." Ostil gave a long, forced laugh.

"You got balls I'll give you that. You alone?" He pulled back the hammer on his pistol.

"I'm never alone." The man's hands were still open.

"You a godly man?" Ostil asked with a snort. His men were worried now but none raised their weapons without orders, he had trained them good that way. Caused a few less unnecessary bloodbaths.

"I've been called a god by a few." The man said and Ostil laughed genuinely this time, slapping his knee and turning to Ty.

"Whats the name of that fat man who lives in that mansion on the hill past Russo's? Uses the Deadwater Tribals as muscle." Ty considered it for a moment.

"The one that holds the Yao Gaui fights? Blackjack Polter." He said.

"That's the one, wasn't he always paying well for crazies? Well bag this one boys cause we've got a live one." Ostil said with a chuckle. "Tie him up." He snapped at Cid and Hunter who glanced at him uncertainly. Cid pulled a rope from his belt with his left hand while his right rested on his pistol and the pair approached the man nervously from either side.

"No sudden movements now." Cid warned. "Or i'll put a bullet through your heart faster than you can blink." The man gave Cid a smile, maybe he truly is crazy the slaver thought.

"Drop!" The man roared suddenly, his hand shooting into the inside of his jacket and the slaves all threw themselves to the ground. He drew a short double barreled shotgun out but Cid drew faster. In a heartbeat the pistol was leveled and the trigger pulled. The gun boomed and bullet came thundering out, tearing through the man's jacket and spinning away as it hit the black armour underneath. The man's reply came a half second later and sent Cid crashing to the ground his chest bleeding in a dozen places. The man twisted and dropped to one knee, Hunter's shot sailing over his head. He pulled the trigger again and Hunter's head snapped back, his face a bloody ruin.

"Shit!" Ostil shouted, drawing his own pistol as the man dropped his shotgun and ripped open his jacket to unveil the black power armour chest plate beneath and the sub machine gun hanging from his shoulder. He gripped it and began to raise it as Cammick sighted his own rifle. There was another boom and the side of Cammick's skull exploded outwards. The big slaver pitched forwards as the man opened fire, putting a dozen bullets into the torso of Ty, who was still struggling to get his own sub machine gun free from its holster. Ostil fired four times, missing twice and hitting armour on the others. He tried to remain calm and aim a shot at the man's unprotected head. One moment he was about to pull the trigger and put an end to it and the next his pistol was tumbling to the ground as a bullet tore through his wrist. He dropped to his knees with a suppressed cry, clutching at his arm when he heard a blood curdling cry. He twisted around and saw Mutt writhing on the ground, screaming as he held his hands to his face. Pup lay next to him, a single burn mark in the centre of his head. A laser slashed down from the slope and put an end to Mutt's screaming.

Ostil turned back around to see the man standing over him, sub machine gun leveled at the slaver's skull.

"You the Wanderer?" He asked when no bullet came. He still clutched at his bloody wrist, trying his best to stop the blood flow.

"Some call me that." The man said. There was a rustling to the left and Ostil watched as two men emerged from the bushes and made their way down the slope. One had a laser rifle slung across his back and the second still held his sniper rifle in his hands.

"Nice shot." The one with the laser rifle said as they made their way down. The second man shrugged.

"If I ever miss at this range put me out of my misery there and then." He said with a boyish smile that betrayed his real age. He looked to be sixteen at best, a fucking child by Ostil's reckoning. He almost had his hand blown off by a fucking child.

"Jason, cover him." The Wanderer gestured at Ostil. "Hoyt, free them." he pointed at the slaves and with that he walked away, pulling a flare gun from the inside of his jacket and firing it into the sky. Jason, the boy sniper slung his rifle over his shoulder and opted to go with his pistol instead, aiming it at Ostil's chest.

"Can I have some medicine?" The slaver asked, ignoring the insults and spitting of the newly freed slaves, who under Hoyt's orders did not murder him on the spot.

"Suppose you should." Jason said. "Can't have you dying on us. There's always got to be one to take the message back." He added but made no moves to fetch any.

"Not supposed to be the leader though." Hoyt said. "Boss says they'll just get more guys and come back, needs to be some little rookie."

"Well its not my fault he's the only one we got, you killed the wounded guy." Jason snapped back, obviously feeling like he was being blamed.

"Not my fault either." Hoyt said lamely "Stupid fuck tried to push the other guy out of the way, the laser grazed his eye. I had to put him down - Can't expect a blind man to make it back."

"But he still had the other eye." Jason pointed out, earning a blank stare from Hoyt for a few seconds.

"Shit." He muttered. "I didn't think of that." Jason threw back his head and laughed. Ostil began to feel lightheaded.

"Medicine, please." He begged weakly. "If you ain't got a stimpak just give me a bandage or some painkillers at least." Jason at least had the grace to pretend to look concerned unlike his companion.

"Boss!" He called to the Wanderer who was in conversation with the freed slaves offering them lodging at the nearest Regulator station until a new home could be found for them. "He might kick the bucket unless we give him a stimpak."

"So?" The Wanderer asked as he walked over.

"What about the message?" Hoyt asked.

"Fuck the message, we don't waste medicine on scum like him. Seven missing guys might serve as message enough." The Wanderer said.

"Holder says we should always send a message plus he could still be of some use." Jason put in. The Wanderer considered it for a moment and squatted in front of the slaver.

"You ever heard of the Wanderer or the Regulators?" He asked. Ostil shook his head.

"Not until today." he admitted, wishing he'd found some local guide before the raid.

"Where are you from?" The Wanderer demanded his brown eyes locking onto Ostil's.

"The Cattle Market, slaver settlement maybe a week and a half away to the west if you know where you're going." Mostly true, Ostil thought, this man had no wish to hear about his farm and its nearby town that lived under The Cattle Market's protection.

"Anyone going to try and avenge your boys?" Ostil's first instinct was to lie, to say it was water under the bridge, live and let live and all that but he felt that with a man like this that probably would get him a bullet to the face rather than medicine.

"Half the guild hate each others' guts but they don't take too kindly to someone killing one of them." The Wanderer nodded, considering it.

"Last thing. The name Boyd mean anything to you?"

"Nope." Ostil answered weakly. "Can I get some medicine now?"

"I got everything I need. You want to send a message or not I don't care just get it over with quickly." With that the Wanderer turned away. He went to the freed slaves, who were now stripping the dead of their possessions, stopping only to spit some bloody phlegm onto the ground.

"You okay, boss?" Hoyt asked, stepping towards him, offering his canteen.

"I'm fine, no point worrying yourself." The Wanderer waved him away. Hoyt rejoined Jason and gave Ostil a contemplative glance.

"Toss a cap for it?" Hoyt suggested to his partner. Jason pulled one from his pocket and flicked it into the air, catching it without taking his eye off Ostil. He took a glance at it.

"Sorry." He said and before Ostil could even follow what was happening there was a bullet in his skull.

* * *

Jonno Boyd scrapped the mud off his boot and wondered if killing potential employers was some kind of faux pas in the mercenary business. It wouldn't help his reputation at least and that was everything to a mercenary, or so he'd been told.

"Please don't." Gib gestured to his shoes. "You'll muddy the carpet." Jonno sighed and met Gib's eyes with a glare.

"I'll do worse than that if you don't get to explaining." Jonno promised, resting a hand on the machete that hung from his belt. Gib sighed and placed a tray of coffees on the table.

"As a said before I can't pay you much now." Jonno picked up two cups, passing one to Pope, who to Gib looked closer to being shaved Yao gaui than a man in size if not temperament . "But you'll get all when the job is done." Pope took a protracted sip from his coffee and lay the cup down.

"Its half now, half when the jobs done. Those are the rules, always have been." He said. Gib's eyes darted between the two of them, wondering if this was what passed for good cop bad cop in the wasteland.

"I don't have enough for half now, I can get together a fifth at best but there's more than enough to cover your fees and expenses in the vault." Jonno's eyes narrowed.

"Why the fuck do we need you then if we can just hit him by ourselves and come away with more?" He asked the older man.

"The same reason Cress and his guys are still there, only I know the way into the vault." Gib said with a smile, one that disappeared when Jonno half drew his machete.

"And what's to stop us from making you spill the beans?" He asked. Gib stopped mid sip and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"I assumed you to be of greater moral character than that." Jonno's face screwed up and his knuckles went white around the machete's handle. He knew why the older man had assumed and it made him what to ram the machete into Gib's face all the more.

"We'll take the job." He said, relenting and sliding the machete back into its sheath. "Due to the lack of advance the fee goes from three thousand caps to thirty six hundred, that suit you?"

"Perfectly." Gib said, relaxing. "We need to do it soon though." he added as Jonno downed his coffee.

"Why?" Pope asked.

"Cress is an impatient man with a fondness for explosives, it's only a matter of time before he tries to blow his way into the vault and when he does it'll set off the TNT and all the ammo we were storing in there and tear the entire building apart." Gib said, mimicking the blast with his hands, sending some coffee sloshing over the rim and onto his precious carpet.

"Sounds fun." Jonno said as he stood up and put his cup back on the tray. "I'll leave Pope to work out the precise details but if you could sketch out a map of the building I'd be grateful." he added as he made his way to the door. Gib assured Jonno that he would and set about fetching a pen and paper as Jonno opened the door and left the small shack that passed for a home. Outside four men and women lounged in the shade, enjoying the protection the canopy gave them from the midday sun. Tomlin and Beth played a game of blackjack closest to the door, a small pile of caps heaped on a water barrel. Milky lay on his back, his cap pulled down over his face with the sound of some tune being hummed that Jonno didn't recognise coming from underneath.

Caroline sat apart from the others, her sniper rifle in pieces on the trestle table before her as she cleaned it in a manner that bordering on ritualistic now. Only when every single part was found to be spotless and free of fault would the rifle be pieced back together again and then stripped down once more for a final once over.

"So we taking it?" Tomlin asked without looking away from his game.

"Yep." Jonno said, sitting down next to him. "Five hundred a piece for you lot." Tomlin smiled at that and lay down his cards triumphantly. Beth swore and threw hers down.

"And how much for you and Pope?" He asked, taking his winnings and dropping them into his pouch.

"Eight hundred." Jonno answered. "Perks of leadership." he added with a smile. Beth was muttering numbers to herself.

"Thirty... thirty six hundred." She said after a few seconds, eliciting a sagely nod from Tomlin as he tried to give the impression that he had any idea whether the number was right or not. "So why are we taking on Cress for thirty six hundred when you turned down that escort job for four thousand last week?" Beth asked.

"Cause the escorting would be boring as shit." Jonno said, scrapping the last of the mud from his boots. "Plus I heard that Richter used to run with Cress." Milky's humming stopped and Caroline paused halfway through reattaching the scope.

"How long ago?" Milky asked, pulling up his cap.

"Left a couple months ago, Cress might know where he went." Jonno replied. Caroline finished with the scope and lay down the gun.

"So when do we hit them?" She asked.

"Soon as everyone's ready." Jonno said. Tomlin sighed and leaned back.

"Can we at least know a bit before we go charging in there?" He asked. "Like how many are there?"

"Fifteen as far as we know." Jonno shrugged. "Gib says Cress' got a few Deadwater Tribals running supplies for him though, so they could be there as well." Tomlin sighed again.

"Shit. Well no matter, most raiders are strung out junkies - its discipline and tactics that take it, not numbers." He said, trying to reassure himself.

"Most of these guys are ex-Talon Company." Jonno told him, earning a chuckle from Milky.

"You got to be fucking kidding me." Tomlin shook his head. "Ah fuck it, its not like I had anything planned for the rest of my life." Pope stepped outside, stuffing Gib's map into his breast pocket. Gib stood behind him, looking like a nervous child compared to the giant mercenary. Pope picked up his shotgun from where it leaned against the shack, pulling off the drum magazine and looking inside. He slammed it back in and turned to the group with a grin on his face.

"Lets go kill some bad guys."

* * *

 _Thanks for reading, please leave a review if you enjoyed it, or if you didn't still leave one. It's always good to have feedback._

 _Plus the usual stuff about how I don't own Fallout and all that._


	2. Butcher Pete

The Peddler leaned back against the rock, tugging the brim of his hat down to shade his eyes. His other hand rested on the grip of his N99 pistol. It was an old world military standard issue and still in as good condition as anything could be this long after the fall. His small green eyes, tucked between a wrinkled brow and scarred cheeks, watched as The Traveler made his way down the slope to spring. There was no wasted effort about the man, The Peddler could tell, every step was measured and deliberate. He too was scarred, though not so heavily as The Peddler. He did nothing to acknowledge The Peddler as he made his way to the flowing water. He squatted by it and began to fill his canteen, only then did he spare The Peddler a lazy glance.

"This your water?" He asked once the canteen was full. The Peddler shook his head and scanned The Traveler for a weapon, finding none.

"Just passing through." He said, tightening his grip on the N99 as The Traveler drew himself up.

"You of a mind to use that?" The Traveler asked, nodding at the pistol.

"Only if you're of a mind to make me." The Peddler said with a shrug. The Traveler shook his head and took a swig from his water.

"A bullet in the head wouldn't suit me." The Traveler's attitude, speech and movement all held something that The Peddler had seen before, the arrogance that came with ability. Nothing about him hinted at any fear of The Peddler and his pistol. "You visit this area often?" The Traveler asked.

"Does it matter?." The Peddler warily replied. The Traveler smiled at that and slowly made his way to a rock opposite The Peddler and sat on it.

"I'm new to the area, having a trader they know vouch for me might make the locals less inclined to shoot me on sight." The Traveler said.

"Can't help you there, my first time here too." The Peddler hawked and spat. "Usually I wouldn't travel this far but the area's got a bit of a raider problem that making the usual traders hesitant of the journey, thought If I snuck in I could make a good profit out of the trip." The Traveler laughed.

"A raider problem that's got everyone else shitting themselves and you head in alone? Got some balls." He said. The Peddler tensed.

"I can look after myself." He said, tapping the N99. And he could at that, a youth spent as a mercenary and ten years as a lawman had given him the skills he needed not only to survive but to thrive, even in his old age he was still fit and healthy where many others' bodies had begun to fail them. The Traveler studied him in silence, the man was a killer The Peddler could tell, he could judge the truth of the Peddler's statement for himself.

"That may be." He said after a while. "But even the best can still get caught off guard if they're alone, sure you don't need a guard? I could do with some work." The Peddler felt like laughing, that'd be a fine idea if he felt like having all his stuff stolen or his throat slit the moment he fell asleep. The Peddler let silence hang for a moment, to see if the The Traveler would feel a need to fill it. He did not, instead he took another sip of his water and stared at The Peddler.

"I rarely hire extra hands and I don't hire people I don't know." The Peddler said. "Might be some money to be made around here, though if you're willing for dangerous work." He added, hoping the thought of honest money might keep the man away from some impromptu banditry.

"What you got in mind?" The Traveler asked, scratching at his stubble.

"When I was stocking up in Youngstown a pair of bounty hunters passed through, said there's a bounty out on the raiders that are causing all the trouble in these..."

"What's the pay like?" The Traveler interrupted. The Peddler sighed.

"They said it was eighty caps for any of the members of the gang, eight hundred for the leader - a psycho by the name of Butcher Pete." He said.

"Like the song?" The Traveler interrupted again.

"Like the song." The Peddler confirmed.

"That's a good payday, even if you just get the boss." The Traveler said, considering it. "You know how big the gang is?"

"They didn't say but unless the town's planing on bankrupting itself i'd guess no more than a dozen or so." The Peddler said after some consideration. "Doubt you'll get the full pay though." The Traveler frowned.

"Why not?" He said, a smile beginning to form on his lips. "You don't think I can do it, old man? The Peddler met his eyes and saw the challenge there. There was something about the man that most others might not have noticed but The Peddler had seen enough men of violence to pick up on it. It was not just that he was a killer, any deputy or trader worth their salt could see the scars and his attitude and draw the conclusions from there. But The Peddler could see the violence in him, like a coiled spring being held down, ready to erupt at any moment. This was not some small town thug or local ne're-do-weller who had gotten in a few bloody scraps in his time, this was a man whose life and career were centered around his skill and propensity for killing.

"No, I reckon you might be able to." The Peddler said a moment later to placate the The Traveler. "Problem is I met one of the locals a day back, he was trying to trying to get the hell out of dodge - offered to sell me his farm on the cheap - and he said they don't know what this Butcher Pete looks like, wears a mask when they're out hunting. I'm guessing the high price tag on him was to lure in some proper bounty hunters and then once its done they'll refuse to pay out the big bucks cause they can't prove its Pete."

"You're smart, old man." The Traveler said with a grin. "I think I'm starting to like you, sure you don't need a guard?" The Peddler shook his head again.

"I'm sure. If you do go hunting and I'm still in the town when you come in with some bodies I'll vouch for you." The Peddler promised. The Traveler seemed to consider it for a moment.

"And how much would you be wanting for this favour?" He asked, knowing the game that was being played.

"Twenty percent." The Peddler replied instantly. The Traveler laughed.

"Five and I'm being generous." He said, with what seemed like genuine humour in his voice.

"Eighteen." The Peddler fired back.

"Ten." The Traveler said in a manner that suggested it pained him to go that high.

"Twelve." The Peddler said without hesitation, now was no time to fake indecision like you would if you were at the market.

"Done." The Traveler said immediately, before the The Peddler could change his mind. The Traveler pushed himself up and extended his hand. The Peddler hesitated for a moment, still unwilling to take his hand away from the N99. But he relented and met The Traveler's grip, his left hand hovering over the knife on his belt.

"Good hunting." The Peddler said with a forced smile

"Well I'll be off then, early bird gets the worm and all that." The Traveler said, turning his back on The Peddler and walking off without a care in the world. When he was sure the man was gone The Peddler topped up his canteens and set off with a whistle, his pack brahmin stirring from its spot in the shade and lumbering after him.

* * *

Josh waited the the dark of the closet, hands shaking, heart pounding, sweat drenching his shirt. He was young, barely old enough to be called a man and with a scrawny frame that made him stand out from his comrades. He could still see them through the slits of the closet door. Cheg was slumped against the wall, the machete still buried in his forehead. Young Tom and Red Tom were both still in their seats, blood dripping from the bullet holes that covered them to form a large joint pool on the floor. Megan and Grey had at least been able to die standing. Grey was on his back, his face a bloody wreck; Megan lay in a heap with the radio after she had been sent flying against it by the shotgun's blast. Josh wanted to look away but he could not. There was no way he he keep his eye on the door to the room and not see them.

He flinched as a series of gunshots erupted downstairs, shouting and screaming accompanied it but silence soon followed. Silence other than the whistling. That fucking whistling, Josh thought, why does he always whistle? "Because you don't want to hear him sing." was what Cheg had always said.

"Boss!" Josh heard Hector shout. "Boss! What the fuck is going on?" The whistling stopped. Josh pushed himself further back into the closet, the panic in Hector's usually confident voice spreading to him. "Boss!" There was a shotgun blast, the sound of a body dropping and then the whistling started again. Josh raised his pistol, a rusty nine millimeter, and pointed it at the closet door.

"Josh!" A voice called in a sing song manner. "I know you're here Josh, you're the only one left." Josh's hands shook but he kept the gun focused as best he could on the door. He could do it, just pull the trigger and you're safe. Josh could hear steps coming up the stair, the floorboards creaking as he came down the corridor. The whistling stopped and Pete's wide, scarred face popped into the room. His eyes scanned around the room and settled on the closed door of the closet. "Really Josh? The closet? Scab at least had the brains to try and run." Josh stayed silent and kept his pistol leveled. Pete strode into the room and opened the door, towering over Josh with a grin.

"Fuck off, Pete!" Josh shakily pointed the pistol at Pete's chest. "Turn around and leave me be or I'll put you down, I swear it." He said, attempting a confidence he did not feel. Pete smiled wistfully like Josh was a son threatening to run away from home.

"No you won't, Josh." Pete squatted down in front of him.

"I fucking will, just try m..." Josh was interrupted as Pete's hand snaked out, quick as a flash and tore the pistol from Josh's grip. Pete threw the pistol away over his shoulder and glared into Josh's eyes. The younger man could not hold his gaze and was forced to stare at the ground and for the first time in years he felt like crying. "Why did you know I wouldn't shoot?" He asked.

"Same reason our little gang was able to terrorize a town of what? A hundred and fifty maybe?" Pete's face screwed up as he took a guess. It was closer to a hundred and twenty, Josh knew, for he had grown up in Daces. "Really, most men and women aren't naturally willing to kill. They could have whipped up a posse of eighty folks and hunted us down easy but instead they're all so afraid they just end up putting bounties on us." Pete stopped for a moment to pull his shotgun from its sling, an over under with a shortened barrel. "Even ignoring that, Josh - simply put you're just a coward. Don't think I didn't notice you always ready to run the moment things looked to turn bad, never joining in on Scab, Paige or Cheg's brutalities - just hiding at the back and searching the bodies." Josh continued to stare at the ground, knowing everything Pete said was true.

He was a coward - whenever they had ambushed a caravan or demanded a toll from travelers he would hide at the back and wait until he was sure there was no risk. When Sheriff Andrew had lead his small posse to take on Butcher Pete, Josh had frozen and spent most of the firefight hiding behind a rock. Only when the Sheriff was dead and the survivors running had Josh crawled out from behind cover and for the sake of face fired a few rounds blindly into the dark, though he very much doubted that he hit anyone. Even ambushing the bounty hunters three days ago he had frozen despite there only being two of them.

"Why're you doing this, Pete?" Josh asked fighting back the tears. "I knew you didn't like Scab or any of the Toms but I thought you got along with the rest of us, hell I would have said Hector and Megan were your friends." Butcher Pete shrugged, showing the same casual indifference to the deaths of his gang as he did to all the other lives they had taken over the last year.

"Maybe, but I ain't in this for friendship." Pete said coldly. "Truth is, Josh, I was getting bored - think I got all the fun out of this gig before some proper bounty hunters came along and put us down like the animals we are. Now seemed like the best time to cash in the chips and move on." Josh could not hold back any more and felt any little dignity he had left leave him as the tears rolled down his cheeks.

"Is that all we were to you?" He asked. "Just an amusement to pass the time?" Pete chuckled and raised his shotgun.

"That's all anything in life is." He placed the shotgun against Josh's chest. Josh looked up and met his eyes.

"Please don't do this, Pete." Josh pleaded. "Let me go and I'll run away and you'll never see me again." Pete sighed and shook his head.

"I can't take that risk." He said apologetically. "This might hurt a bit." He added and pulled the trigger. Josh's lifeless body thumped back against the wall of the closet. Butcher Pete stood up and stretched his arms, sparing the death youth only the slightest of glances - seeing no need to afford Josh a respect or reverence in death that he had not given him in life. He strode across the room on his long legs and drew up in front of Cheg's dead body. He gave the old brute's body a wistful smile, Josh was right - there had been some fun times but that was all behind him now. He placed his boot against Cheg's chest and with a grunt tore the machete free from his forehead. With a smile Butcher Pete stretched his arms for a final time, there was going to be some heavy work ahead of him.

* * *

Deputy Raymond Danko was the law in Daces, or as close as the town had to it until a new Sheriff could be chosen. Though by everyone's reckoning that was going to be a while so Danko was enjoying the authority while it lasted. He was more than qualified for the job, both he and the other Deputies knew - taking his job a damn sight more seriously than half of the previous Sheriffs had. But he would never get the job, despite all the hours he put in; barely sleeping most days as he patrolled the town and arranged sentries to ensure they were never caught unawares by Butcher Pete and his ilk again. Despite all that effort and all the wounds he had taken defending the town he would never make Sheriff - only a Dace could be Sheriff in Daces. It was a tradition, one that Danko was resenting now more than ever. The Dace family had built the town and ever since every Sheriff and Mayor had been a Dace, regardless of how competent they were.

Sheriff Willit Dace had been a fat drunk and a coward and had left most of the security of Daces up to Danko and Deputy Lopez and his career of apathy and uselessness had come to a rather violent end when Butcher Pete strolled into the middle of town, singing the song that would give him his name and robbed the general store before putting a bullet between Willit's eyes. Andrew Dace had taken over after that, he had at least been brave and committed Danko had to concede. He had created a dozen new temporary deputies and ensured that the town was patrolled day and night to keep Butcher Pete away. But then three caravans heading for Daces were all hit with no survivors and Sheriff Andrew took Lopez and nine of his new deputies into the hills to hunt down Pete and his gang, leaving Danko in charge of the town's defence in his absence. Only two had made it back, one dying of his wounds a day later.

Orville Dace had taken over then, he had been a bit young but he was well meaning, all the good it did him when Butcher Pete's boys snuck into town in the night and slit his throat. After that none of the surviving Daces were quite willing to step up and take the position. The Mayor, Andrew and Orville's father had barricaded himself and his remaining kids in their house, refusing to come out until Butcher Pete was dealt with. And so it had been left up to Danko to protect the town, he had created a dozen new deputies, built snipers nests atop the saloon and the Thompson's house and convinced all the families of Daces to pitch in to cover a bounty on Butcher Pete and his gang.

And for all this effort the Mayor had promised him the meaningless title of "Senior Deputy", well screw that, Danko thought. Why the hell should he not be Sheriff. Other than Willit's daughter Ashley, who had left to work the caravan routes two years ago, none of the remaining Daces had the guts or skill to be Sheriff. Hell, Danko's grandmother had been a Dace, he might not have the name but he had the blood - that should be enough in such desperate times he thought.

"Danko!" Deputy Butler's voice dragged Raymond from his thoughts, Danko peaked out from the shade of his shack and looked up to the sniper's nest on the Thompson house.

"What is it?" He called up to the Deputy who sat with his scoped hunting rifle.

"We got a visitor coming." Butler called. "One guy with a brahmin." Danko's heart leapt in his chest. A trader would be a godsend with Butcher Pete on the roads all the scheduled caravans had either been ambushed on route or were too afraid to make the trip. Daces could survive by itself by itself but only just and many of its inhabitants had grown accustomed to the luxuries the caravans brought.

"Call out the others." Danko ordered. Better safe than sorry, he thought. Butler blew on the whistle that hung around his neck - its high piercing sound summoning half a dozen armed men in under a minute. They gathered on the edge of the town and watched as the man and his brahmin made their way along the road. He walked slowly, with his arms spread wide and his palm open to show he carried no weapon. He wore a greatcoat typical of caravaneers or anyone else who had to spend long periods of time out on the wastes. Danko did not recognise him but that was hardly surprising, he was a middle aged man with a flat face that had a couple scars gracing the cheeks. He stopped a dozen feet from Danko as the other deputies trained their weapons on him.

"You a trader?" Danko called. The man shook his head.

"Bounty hunter - Clarence Snow's the name, but I have come to make a trade." He said. Only then did Danko realise that the brahmin did not carry the usual crates or baggage of a trader instead there was a single body draped over the bahmin's back and two stained sacks hanging from its flanks. Danko placed his hand on the hilt of his revolver, more for confidence than safety.

"Who you got there?" He called to Snow. The man smiled and slapped the brahim, sending it towards Danko.

"Butcher Pete and his gang, heard you boys were offering a reward." Clarence said. "They're all in there." Danko took a hesitant step towards the brahmin. Both sacks had dark stains at the bottom and flies buzzed about in large number about them. With the other deputies' rifles trained on Snow Danko opened one of the sacks and nearly vomited there and then. It was Butcher Pete's gang no mistaking that. There were five heads piled into the sack. One was a mess, ruined beyond all recognition by what Danko would guess was a fatal case of buckshot to the face but Danko recognised the others. Two had been with Pete when Willit was murdered and the other two were Paige and Tom Wilkins, a pair of local thugs who had run off to join the Butcher a few days after the Sheriff's murder.

"How many in the other sack?" Danko asked, only barely holding back the urge to be sick.

"Six." Snow answered, his hands still held out wide. One of the other deputies asked what was in the sacks but both Snow and Danko ignored him.

"That all of them?" Raymond asked after forcing himself to check second sack.

"Yep." Snow said. "And that's Pete." He gestured to the body slung over the brahmin. Danko grabbed the dead man's head by his short hair and lifted the head up to have a look at the face. He did not recognise the man but he had the look of a fighter. An older man, mid to late fifties maybe, with a heavily scarred face and not an ounce of fat on his sinewy body. It could be Pete, Danko hoped.

"Got any proof?" He asked Snow. The bounty hunter slowly reached into his jacket and pulled out a mask, the kind hockey players used before the war, and threw it towards Danko. It fell at the deputy's feet, though he did not need to look at it. He knew as it had flown through the air that it was Butcher Pete's mask.

"Lippet." Danko called to one of the deputies. "Run to the mayor's and fetch the caps." he ordered. Deputy Lippet hesitated.

"How many?" He asked.

"Eighteen hundred." Danko answered without hesitation. The Mayor and the community would be angry at having to pay out more than planned but Danko was not going to stand there and tell the man who wiped out a raider gang that he was not getting what was promised to him. Lippet almost protested but thought better of it.

"Bounty only comes to sixteen hundred and eighty." Snow pointed out.

"The extra hundred and twenty is if you leave as soon as you're paid." Danko said, wanting no man as dangerous as this in his town.

"I need supplies first." Snow protested, his smile dropped in an instant.

"Chan, get a week's worth of food and water from the general store - tell them to put it on my tab." Danko ordered, the deputy obeying him in an instant. Snow shrugged.

"If that's how you want to play it." Only silence followed as they waited for the others to return. Lippet was back first.

"The old man wasn't happy." He said as he passed Danko and handed a small backpack to Snow, who set about counting the caps. Chan returned a few minutes after Snow had finished, a heavy sack over his shoulder. At Snow's bidding and after a nod of approval from Danko he took Butcher Pete's body off the Brahmin, cut down the sacks and tied the supplies to its harness.

"Well... be seeing you then." Snow said with a nod, setting off brahmin in tow.

* * *

Ben Jurgan sat down with his drink, the cheapest thing they had that could still get you drunk without killing you. It was bitter, burning and left a foul taste in his mouth but Ben could more than attest to its ability to get him drunk. Though what it was currently doing to his insides he had no idea and in two glasses time he would not care. This had been his life for the last two weeks. He had thought it would be easy, no more than a couple days wait. The mercenaries and tribals who would sit in the saloon in Two Trees waiting for work rarely had to wait more than a week until someone came offering work - security for a caravan, slaver hunting or dealing with the all too common ant infestations. But here Ben had sat with his drinks for nearly a month and still no job. At first the drinks had been something a bit more expensive and less toxic but his bag of caps had gotten smaller and smaller and so here he was drinking this vile brew.

He wondered why he had not been hired yet, maybe Youngstown was not as dangerous as Two Trees and nobody needed a mercenary. Though deep down he knew that not to be true, he had seen a half dozen other mercenaries hired in the time he had been there, usually by the numerous caravans that had passed through and needed new guards to replace the men lost on the previous stretch. More than likely they knew him for the sham he was. Were you even technically a mercenary if you've never been hired before? He wondered. Probably not, so he wasn't a mercenary and he sure as shit wasn't a farmer any more, not after the exit he'd made, what was he? A kid playing in stolen armour.

"You a merc?" A voice asked. Ben nearly jumped in his seat, taken off guard as he mulled in his misery. He looked up to see a scarred face looking down at him.

"If the money's good." Ben said with his best attempt at brutish tone. The man smiled and took a seat opposite him.

"Oh the money'll be good, I guarantee it." The man's smile was an easy one but there was no warmth there. He was the spitting image of the grizzled veteran mercs Ben had seen in the Two Trees Salon.

"You offering a job?" Ben asked, pouring himself a drink.

"What I'm offering is an idea." The man said, picking up Ben's glass and downing the foul liquid within without the slightest hint of discomfort. Ben raised no complaints, not wanting to chase away the first chance at money he had.

"What idea?" He asked.

"It's a simple one really." The man said. "A group of mercs is more likely to get a job than a lone one." It was an idea, Ben gave the man that, not a particularly revolutionary or complex one but it was certainly an idea.

"So you want us to join up?" Ben asked. The man sighed.

"No I want you to join up with me." He said, sliding the glass back to Ben. "As a continuation of my idea it occurs to me that people would much rather hire a merc group with a name, a uniform and a brand rather than a ramshackle gathering of vagabonds." He said with a flourish. "And so I'm of a mind to start the newest company of mercs, still need to work on the uniforms though. But I was hoping you'd be the first recruit." Ben considered it, fuck it - wasn't like he had any other offers going.

"What's this company going to be called?" He asked. The man shrugged.

"Fucked if I know, I didn't think that far ahead." Ben laughed despite his best attempts not to.

"Fine, I'm in." He said. "What's your name?"

"My friends call me Mr. Inbetween. Cause you don't mess with Mr. Inbetween." The man said.

"Like the song?" Ben asked.

"Like the song." The man confirmed with a grin.

* * *

 _Thanks for reading, the song being referenced at the end is "Accentuate the Positive" both the John Mercer and Sam Cooke versions fit quite well into the Fallout setting and style._

 _Clarence Snow is the real name of Hank Snow, a singer during the 50's who did "I don't Hurt Anymore" which is referenced in New Vegas._

 _Please review if you liked it, or if you disliked it, or even if you were neutral about it - feedback's always nice_


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